


Tactile Rules of Engagement

by heeroluva



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Academy Era, Angst, Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-22
Updated: 2011-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-17 05:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/pseuds/heeroluva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>buckleup_meme prompt - Kirk is thought of as a tactile person, but it's really that he learned in childhood how to use touch/proximity to intimidate or charm others into doing what he wanted. McCoy has a habit of giving him absent little signs of affection - a knee pressed up against his at dinner, an arm slung over his shoulders on the way home from a bar, a hand stroking his hair when he's sick. It makes him suspicious and he finally asks McCoy what the hell he wants with all this touching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tactile Rules of Engagement

Jim had always been a tactile person, but as he grew it became more by necessity rather than any real desire for contact. He learned at an early age that people touched him a) to get him to do something he didn’t want to, or b) to hurt him. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that he could flip the tables around just as easily and put himself in control. He didn’t have to be the one being used. He wasn’t going to be anyone’s pawn. It was a game he would master, a weapon he would hone into the sharpest of blades.

It wasn’t the first time he’d used touch to his advantage, but it was the first time that it really stood out in his mind. He’d had a nanny that he couldn’t even remember the name of anymore. She obviously hadn’t wanted the job, hadn’t wanted much to do with him, but he’d later assumed she’d just needed the money for school as she was always working on homework and had no better way to get it. She hadn’t been one for holding him, instead preferring Jim entertained himself while she did her own things.

One day when he was feeling particularly in need of the contact that she didn’t normally willingly give, he’d climbed up onto the couch next to her, pressing his leg up against hers. She’d just looked down at him for a moment before continuing her work. Long minutes had passed and he’d sat quiet and still (both abnormal for him). She glanced at him again, slightly confused, before shrugging and reaching down, pulling him into her lap.

Jim had sighed contently, snuggling closer and looking over the papers before him. He didn’t understand all the words and symbols but those that he did, he traced with his fingers and recited quietly to himself. It hadn’t been a major accomplishment, hadn’t been a big deal, but it was the first time he truly realized the power it had.

After that his life was full of experimental touches, seeing what reaction they got from people, learning what type of touch would work on what type of person in any given situation. Every touch he received in turn, he scrutinized, wondering what they were after, what they wanted from him. Sometimes it was obvious, sometimes not so much. He got very good at reading people. He learned how to talk the talk and walk the walk, how to out talk the best of them, but it always came down to touch. It was the most important factor.

As Jim grew he realized there was another type of touch. Sex. And he mastered that as well. It was just another type of touching to get him something. Sex at least was a reward all in its own. Usually.

The violence that had been part of his life from the time he was born, from the events surrounding his father’s death to Frank’s accustomed beatings, was just another type of touch, a vile and imprecise one at that, but one that more often than he cared to admit was required. It was better to get in the first strike when the other person was least expecting it. That view had resulted in his rather colorful record, but had been helpful during his few short stints in the county jail for disorderly conduct.

The first time Bones touched him Jim could almost pass it off as completely innocent. Almost. As the man passed his flask over to share a drink, his fingers had lingered against Jim’s a moment, then two, strictly longer than necessary before he finally relinquished his grip. Jim took a drink and shared his name while eyeing ‘Bones’, and wondered briefly what the man wanted. ‘Bones’ leg pressed solidly against Jim’s, and he tried valiantly to squeeze himself into as little space as possible, but given the close quarters he wasn’t able to make much of a difference. He wished ‘Bones’ would keep to his own seat like the guy on his other side.

When it randomly turned out that they had been assigned the same room despite being on completely different tracts due to the fact that they had both enrolled so late, Jim had thrown his arm over the newly dubbed Bones, while sing-songing, “Hello roomie, mine.”

Bones had just growled and shrugged off his arm, obviously still hung over and in no mood for Jim’s cheerfulness.

A week later found them both stumbling drunk as they staggered their way home after a hard night of drinks and play. Normally Jim would have found a pretty little thing to have some fun with, but something had stopped him that night. As Bones tripped over his own feet, he threw his arm around Jim’s shoulder trying to keep himself on his feet, and almost took Jim down with him. It wasn’t until the next morning that Jim questioned the touch, but finally decided that it was just an innocent move and meant nothing more than it was.

Little did Jim know that that was the start of a new trend, one that didn’t follow the previous patterns that he had learned, one that he did not understand. A brush here, a touch there, a hand on his arm or back as Jim met up with Bones on the way to a shared class or back to their room became commonplace. As they sat together for meals in the crowded cafeteria, Bones’ leg and arm would press up against Jim’s. Give the jam packed state of the cafeteria, how it was outdated and much too small for the numbers it served, it helped people do a good imitation of sardines lined up in a can. It could have been mistaken as completely accidental, if not for the fact that Bones normally managed to not touch the person on his other side.

After watching a good game (did the sport really matter?) where their team won, the usual high fives turned into enthusiastic hugs from Bones, which again could have been put off to chance it not for the frequency. Then came the arm thrown over his shoulders when they’d meet up on campus, taking place of the simpler touches that had come before them.

The worst had been when he was sick – not just hung-over sick because he never went drinking without his stash of detox pills, and Bones was really handy with his hypo for that type of thing when the situation called for it – but the really hopeless, wretched, he-wished-he-would-just-die-so-he’d-be-put-out-of-his-misery type of sick. He’d seen his mother fuss over his brother when Sam had been sick when he was young, always touching and soothing him. Jim hadn’t understood that. He didn’t want to be touched when he was sick, wanted to be left alone, and allowed to lick his wounds and let the illness run its course in solitude.

But of course Bones wouldn’t have any of that. He was constantly there, brushing back his hair as he was violently sick in the toilet, a convenient container, or even the floor or bedding when he was too slow to make it to the others. McCoy would clean him up, change the bedding and his clothes, but he wouldn’t leave him alone. He vaguely remembered during one particularly bad occasion when he’d been so out of it with fever and shivering with cold, Bones had climbed into bed with him and wrapped his arms around him. While it could have been a dream, Jim didn’t think it was. It was his vulnerability that unnerved him most of all, and his traitorous mind supplied, that it was during those times that he’d let himself admit that maybe he liked Bones’ touches.

Jim didn’t know what to make of it, couldn’t comprehend what Bones wanted from him. The man that had quickly becomes an unlikely friend nothing like any he had ever had before, didn’t give anything away. There was no clue, almost as though McCoy didn’t realized he was doing it, but Jim knew that there was no way that he could be so oblivious to so much touching. The fact that Jim never saw his friend touch anyone in the same manner was not lost on him.

After a particularly long week of grueling tests and more papers with required word counts that should have been illegal even for the genius that Jim was, he couldn’t take it anymore and snapped. It wasn’t any different than any other day, but Jim was just so tired, and twisted inside, and just didn’t _understand_. He didn’t want to play this game with his friend anymore.

Bones was waiting for Jim to get out of class, and when Jim walked up to him, Bones threw his around Jim’s shoulder, while asking, “Hey Jim, how’d the tes—”

Jim shrugged his arm off, causing Bones to stop mid-word.

Turning to face Jim, he raised an eyebrow. “That bad, huh?

Jim rounded on him, and angrily growled, “What the hell is up with all the touching? What do you want?”

McCoy just looked at him inquisitively before asking, “What are you talking about? What do I want with what?”

“The touching. You’re always touching me,” Jim tried to explain, not understanding why Bones didn’t get it.

“Yeah, so? You’re always touching everyone too. Didn’t think you had a problem with it.” McCoy was clearly confused.

Jim shrugged helplessly. “But I don’t normally touch _you_.”

Bones face suddenly shuttered, and his tone was dark, “Oh, so that’s the problem is it? I never took you for a hypocrite, Jim.” Then obviously angry, he turned and strode away.

Jim wondered what was so wrong with what he’d said and when the situation had spiraled so far out of control.

Jim didn’t go back to their room for three nights, skipped all of their shared classes, still no closer to understanding things and knowing what Bones meant with the hypocrite statement. The fourth night found him drinking at the type of seedy bar that he normally avoided, hoping that he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew, and holed himself up on a stool in a dark corner of the room with a bottle of rotgut.

Minutes (hours?) later when Bones slid onto the stool next to him, he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. It figured that the man would find him. Jim offered his friend a shot who swallowed it with a straight face.

They both sat in silence for a while, exchanging shots, taking in the rough atmosphere of the bar they were in, before they both blurted, “I’m sorry.” They shared a sheepish grin.

“You go first,” Jim said because he didn’t even know what he was supposed to be sorry for, just that he was, and that he missed his friend, and wished he’d never said anything.

Bones ran his hand across his jaw and signed. Jim raised his brow at the couple days growth he saw there. That definitely wasn’t regulation. “Didn’t realize I was doing it at first, not till later. You never complained, never seemed to mind, so I didn’t think that there was a problem. It was wrong of me, I know. You’re just so damned pretty. Who wouldn’t want you?”

Oh. So that was it. Jim’s face instantly fell. He’d hoped – but no. If that’s what Bones wanted, it wouldn’t be a hardship.

Jim leaned forward, intent on kissing McCoy, but a hand was suddenly in the way blocking him.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bones hissed.

Ok, so maybe he’d misunderstood. “I thought you want….” Jim trailed off, more unsure of the situation than any he’d ever been in, and not liking it one bit. It was like the rules of the game had changed, and no one had bothered to inform him for the fact.

Bones eyes widened minutely, and Jim could almost see the light bulb going off above his friend’s head, and he tensed not knowing what his friend had realized.

Reaching out to grab Jim’s hand, McCoy wound their fingers together, and gazed down at their intertwined fists.

Jim followed his example, wondering what was so fascinating as Bones traced circles across the back of his hand with his thumb. He’d never noticed it before, but Bones had a pianist’s hand: big but all long fingers. It was no wonder he was a good surgeon.

“And what about you, Jim? What do you want?”

Jim raised his head, meeting Bones eyes, not having noticed that his friend’s focus had shifted. “What I want?” Jim asked, not understanding what he meant.

“Explain it to me Jim. Before I started jumping to conclusions, what set you off? What’s the issue with touch?”

Swallowing hard, Jim struggled for words. “You don’t play the game like anyone else I’ve ever met.”

“What game?” McCoy asked in confusion.

“Touch. It’s a game. A weapon. There’s always a goal in mind. I couldn’t figure yours out. It was driving me nuts. I didn’t understand. But now I do. You want me. You can have me, if I can have your friendship.”

Bone’s face was suddenly sorrowful, and his grip on Jim’s handed tightened almost painfully, as he stated sadly, “Aww, kid. Jim. It’s not like that. It doesn’t work like that. My friendship doesn’t cost anything. It’s yours.” He swallowed thickly. “Yes, I’m attracted to you. But you don’t have any obligations towards me.”

“I don’t understand.” Why was this so complicated? Things had been simple before Bones had gone and thrown a wrench into things.

Sighing McCoy, tugged Jim off the stool. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Jim went as instructed, wondering what the plan was. He was already lost. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“I don’t know where you learned that about touch. It’s not like that.” Jim bristled, but Bones continued. “It’s not a weapon or a game. It doesn’t carry with it a price tag. The need for touch is human, a natural need from our time in the womb. It’s about family, and friendship, caring, and love. It’s not a bad thing.”

“It can be,” Jim said softly.

When Bones threw his arm over Jim’s shoulder than pulled him into a hug, Jim returned it without thought, for once not thinking about the price or the reason, just accepting it.

“I know you don’t believe me, but I’ll teach you.”

“What about—”

Bones pulled back cupping Jim’s face in his hands, and stared at him completely serious. “Only if you want to. No obligations. Not till then.”

“And if I said I wanted to?” Jim grinned widely and thrust his hips forward lewdly.

Bones drew in a shuddery breath. “Jim, please. I’m not a Saint. I can’t do this. Not until you really want this. In mind, not just body.”

The smile fell from Jim’s face, and he nodded hesitantly. He wouldn’t lie and say that he’d understood let alone believed half of what Bones had told him tonight, but his friend had seemed adamant and truthful. It couldn’t hurt.

Bones finally smiled and stepped to the side, keeping his arm wrapped around Jim’s shoulders. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

Jim nodded again. Home. He liked the sound of that. For once the weight of Bones’ arms across his shoulders didn’t send his brain whirling, and he didn’t know what to make of that. But he could get used to that.

Bones looked over at him and grinned. “Stop thinking so much.”

Jim returned the grin, and moved closer, breathing in Bones’ comforting scent. Yeah, he could get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of me looking around a kink meme to try and get my muse to write porn... As you can see I did not succeed. All mistakes are mine. Feel free to let me know if you see any. As always feedback is appreciated.


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